


Trick 'r Treat

by chief_johnson



Series: Little Devils [11]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Banter, F/F, Fluff, Gen, Humor, SO MUCH FLUFF, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-14 23:48:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21244031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chief_johnson/pseuds/chief_johnson
Summary: During a Halloween bash at her friend Daphne's apartment, Amanda encounters a strange cast of characters and some undeniable truths about her feelings for Olivia. Halloween fluff, set about a month and a half post-Idle Hands. Lots of Amanda & Daphne friendship.





	Trick 'r Treat

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween, readers! It's my favorite holiday, so I couldn't resist writing a little something to celebrate. This one's pure cotton candy fluff that'll probably rot your teeth. The only warning is that Daphne goes super meta, but frankly, there's no stopping her once she gets started. :P Also, the cover I made for this fic is pretty epic and deserves to be viewed at full size. Go check it out on my DeviantArt page if you get the chance. My username is crystallinejen. Enjoy!

* * *

[ ](https://imgur.com/d0e9B3h)

* * *

On any other occasion, Amanda would have been jealous as hell watching Olivia dance with another girl, but the female in question was about three feet tall, weighed less than Frannie, and had refused to spit out her pacifier since the party began. The threat didn't seem too urgent. Leaning on the countertop, Amanda propped her chin in her hand and grinned behind curled fingers as the captain turned a slow, dainty circle with the toddler in her arms.

The little girl had recently been crying—all the kids were keyed-up on sugar and the thrill of adopting new personas for the evening—and her chest still hitched beneath the gingham pinafore she wore. Her yarn wig, comically oversized on her small head, was askew and sprouting tufts of white-blonde curlicues beneath the brown Dorothy braids. On her feet, a pair of red Mary Janes sparkled, dangling against Olivia's trouser leg as she swayed with the child on her hip. No one, not even Willa's mother Hazel, had been able to calm her down after some wayward trick-or-treaters rang the doorbell, inciting a small riot in Daphne Tyler's living room: candy scattering, children screaming, and one very large, excitable goldendoodle at the center of it all, barking his damn fool head off.

"HAMILTON!" at least four adult voices had cried in unison.

What had possessed Daphne to host the Halloween party in her modestly sized apartment was beyond Amanda. For the past two hours, guests had been bumping into each other, standing elbow to elbow at the snack table, and shedding pieces of their costumes in conjunction with the uptick in body heat after each new arrival. Olivia was down to her waistcoat and dress shirt, her tailcoat and top hat discarded . . . somewhere among the crowd ages ago. She still looked extravagantly dapper in crisp white broadcloth and creased black trousers, her long, wavy hair tied with silk ribbon into a loose ponytail that fell over one shoulder. Despite the low heel on her patent leather oxfords, she had a good two inches or more height on most of the women—and that's what this group was comprised almost entirely of—in attendance. Two inches and a whole helluva lot of sexy.

And yet she was dancing with a three-year-old, trying to soothe the child's fears. In typical Captain Benson fashion, it was working. Willa had finally stopped sobbing around her pacifier and now seemed content to play with Olivia's bow tie, which she'd plucked free of the perfect knot Amanda had helped tie it into before they left home. Developmentally, the little girl was somewhat behind her peers. Even two-year-old Matilda, who often clung to Olivia like glue and shied away from large crowds, couldn't be dragged off the dance floor (otherwise known as Daphne's massive Persian rug, cleared of furniture prior to the shindig, also thanks to Amanda).

No sooner had the thought crossed Amanda's mind than Matilda accidentally plopped onto her frilly knickered bottom, copper ringlets springing about her shoulders. There had been no question what her costume should be this year—ever since Noah's newfound interest in dance began to filter down to his baby sister (it skipped right over Jesse), the cry heard most frequently round the house on movie night was a piping chorus of, "_Annie_! _Annie_!" Or in Matilda's case, "Nannie! Nannie!"

It didn't matter which version, although each child had their preference: Noah was a man of taste, sticking to the classic eighties adaptation starring Carol Burnett and Bernadette Peters; Jesse, the perpetual oddball, favored some ill-advised nineties sequel called _Annie: A Royal Adventure!_; and Matilda loved the flashiness of the latest iteration, with Quvenzhané Wallis in the eponymous role. Personally, Amanda liked the TV movie from the late nineties, featuring Kathy Bates and a fresh-from-Broadway Kristin Chenoweth, but she would never cop to it. And Olivia, purist that she was, maintained that nothing could surpass the original stage version, which she had seen at the age of nine, when Andrea McArdle was still front and center, belting out her tomorrows.

Each film shared one thing in common, and that was Annie's iconic red dress. Olivia had found the sweetest little velvet replica, complete with white Peter Pan collar and a satin sash at the waist, in a children's boutique on Madison Avenue. It had probably cost a small fortune and would only be worn perhaps once or twice after tonight, but the captain was so proud of her discovery—Matilda _did_ look absolutely darling in it—that Amanda couldn't complain. They weren't quite in a place relationship-wise where Amanda felt like she had a say over financial decisions, anyway. At least not other than her own, and she wasn't pulling in anywhere near a captain's salary. She contributed a fair amount, and they lived very comfortably, but she knew who the real breadwinner was in the relationship. Sure she knew . . .

Amanda pushed the thought aside, preparing to rescue Little Orphan Tilly from the throng of dancers and millers-about, if need be. Noah got there first, lugging his sister to her feet and trying to fix the ribbon that had slipped from her hair to hang around her neck like a choker. Though the little girl didn't fuss often, a prissy side was beginning to emerge in her developing personality—she hated to be dirty, and wardrobe malfunctions were cause for serious distress. It made potty training a snap, but small inconveniences, such as stains or holes or a displaced ribbon, brought with them tears that could be soothed by one person only.

Sure enough, the toddler abandoned her brother in search of their mother, who had spotted the problem from across the room and swooped in to save the day. Olivia righted the hair ribbon and expertly fluffed Matilda's curls back into place with one hand, and when the little girl lifted her arms beseechingly, Olivia hoisted her up as if she were light as a feather. No small feat with another thirty-pound child already in tow, but she made it look easy as she stood to her full height, balancing Dorothy Gale on one hip, Orphan Annie on the other.

Amanda still had the urge to warn Olivia about lifting with her left—the side of her rotator cuff surgery. But the captain hated being treated as if she were about to break. At some point, Amanda was just going to have to trust that Olivia knew how much she could handle. Besides that, the sight of badass Benson carting around two tiny little girly-girls was cute as all get-out.

Too cute to resist. Amanda reached under her skirt, sifting through the wispy ostrich feather trim until she located her cell phone tucked into the lacy garter on her thigh. Olivia had laughed at the makeshift pocket, asking why Amanda didn't just carry a purse: "It's going to fall out. With all those feathers, people will think you're a fancy chicken and you just laid an egg." Of course that had turned it into a challenge, and Amanda was proud to say she hadn't laid a single iPhone-shaped egg all evening. But damn, those things were hot as hell and there was really no discreet way to stick your hand up your dress in polite society. Luckily, she was standing behind the counter, and no one else was paying her any mind. She snapped a few quick photos of Olivia in her element—covered in babies—and had just lifted the front of her skirt to return the phone to its hiding spot, when Glinda the Good Witch appeared at her side, like the proverbial angel on one shoulder, and said, "It's not that kind of party, Mandy Lou. Although it could be, if we put the kiddos to bed early . . . "

(Had Amanda said angel? She meant naughty little devil.)

"Please stop talking," she said, turning to face Daphne in all her frothy pink glory, "before you ruin my entire childhood with your filth."

The tiny woman looked like she had fallen into a vat of cotton candy and escaped cocooned within an inch of her life in the stuff. A gigantic plastic crown, embossed with silver stars, gave her the illusion of height, but she still fell short of the five-five mark, poor thing. She'd fashioned her cane into a scepter by taping the glittery star from a fairy princess wand to its handle. She waved the latter in front of Amanda's face, pretending to cast a spell—or perhaps a curse. "I'm not the one molesting herself in public while dressed like Virginia Woolf. Don't make me drop a house on you too."

"Okay, first of all, Glinda . . . " Amanda batted the wand away, then made a sweeping gesture over the length of her sparkly rosé-colored cocktail dress. Technically, it should have been an evening gown, but she had to draw the line somewhere. "Do I look like a clinically depressed 1920s British novelist to you? I'm supposed to be Ginger Rogers, _not_ Virginia Woolf, you doofus."

"Wait, which one was she, again? The one whose legs were insured for, like, millions?"

For someone who frequently dated actresses and whose brainchild this musical-themed party had been, Daphne knew surprisingly little about celebrities and pop culture. To be fair, up until a few weeks ago, Amanda wouldn't have known the difference between Betty Grable's million dollar gams and Ginger Rogers' slightly less safeguarded, but equally talented limbs, either. When she had handed Daphne's "Come as Your Favorite Musical Couple" invitation over to Olivia, she expected the same groan of despair she'd produced upon its reception. Instead, Olivia had actually been excited, announcing she knew the perfect couple to choose.

The captain had looked at Amanda like she was slightly tetched when she confessed to never having seen a single Astaire and Rogers film in her life. Days later, Amanda groaned anew as Olivia sat her down in front of the television, a stack of DVDs on the coffee table with hokey and dated titles such as _The Gay Divorcee_, _Top Hat_, _Swing Time_, _Shall We Dance_ . . . To her surprise, she actually enjoyed most of them. Not the black and white cinematography or the endless ballroom dance sequences, but the snappy dialogue and the quirky humor made her laugh—and damned if the romantic plotlines didn't draw her in as well. It was Ginger Rogers' sass and deadpan delivery that really sold Amanda on the movies and on the idea of dressing as the famous dancing duo for the Halloween party, though.

That, and the promise of numerous sexual favors to be performed by Olivia, at Amanda's discretion. There had been some playful bickering about which of them would wear the pants, and which the dress, but once Amanda saw her captain decked out in full white tie attire, including a walking stick (left at home, out of respect for Daphne who actually needed one) and white leather gloves, she was more than happy to play the girly role. In fact, her stomach was so full of butterflies every time she caught sight of Olivia in that getup, she felt like just that—a giddy, weak in the knees, moony-eyed damn _girl_.

Nevertheless, she'd refused to wear a full-length evening gown. Olivia had finally relented, under one condition: the ostrich feathers. According to the captain, they were the most important element of any good Rogers costume, and so Amanda had heaved a sigh and gone with the heavily sequined ombre dress, sheer from neckline to cleavage, a waterfall of pink fluff spilling over her breasts and thighs. It had been making her sneeze all evening, that fluff, and she would probably be picking it out of her hair for the next few weeks. But Olivia's grin and sly little wink whenever she spotted Amanda from across the room made it difficult to be too annoyed.

If she ever needed proof that she was madly in love with her captain, this damn dress and the damn pin curl hairdo she'd been cajoled into were it. Olivia Margaret Benson would be on her back for the rest of the year, for this one.

"Betty Grable had the million dollar legs," Amanda said, her gaze straying towards Olivia again. As far as she was concerned, Ms. Grable had nothing on Captain Benson and her mile-long legs. The grosgrain strip that concealed the seam on both trouser legs drew the eye up (and up, and up . . .), giving the appearance of even more height. Amanda licked her lips.

"And second of all?" Daphne asked, amusement evident in her tone.

"Huh?" Amanda had barely heard her petite friend. She cast a distracted, sidelong glance in Daphne's direction, flushing lightly when she spied the woman's knowing grin. Maybe the pink feathers weren't so bad, after all—she could blame them for the rosy tint in her cheeks.

"'Okay, first of all, Glinda,'" Daphne echoed, affecting a deep Southern twang. More Kentucky hills than small-town Georgia. "Just seemed like you were building up to something there, Ginge. 'Til you got sidetracked by that tall slice of—"

"Okay, okay." Amanda waved her hands for silence, pink tufts wafting in the breeze she generated. She felt like a goddamn sea anemone. "Second of all, I sound nothing like that. And _third_: wouldn't you be better suited for the Wicked Witch? I can't imagine a good witch having your dirty mind. Or stature."

Daphne crunched down on the peanut M&Ms she was pilfering from a glass dish on the counter and stuffing into her cheeks like a foraging squirrel. "Hey! I'll have you know, Kristin Chenoweth originated the role of Galinda in _Wicked_ and she's, like, three inches shorter than me. Plus, Glinda was basically a god to the munchkins. Plus, Hazel insisted on being the Wicked Witch so she could do her palm-reading booth . . . thing."

She fluttered her fingers at the breakfast nook in the corner, where Hazel was indeed seated across from Riff Raff and Magenta from _Rocky Horror_, poring over their outstretched palms and gesticulating at a snow globe meant to emulate a crystal ball. The young woman's skin was a shimmering lizard-green, her gray hair—which she'd purposely dyed that color long before Halloween, insisting it was "elvish silver," not an elderly shade—a nice touch under the pointy black hat. Noticing she had an audience, Hazel tossed her head back and gave a witchy cackle.

"Ugh." Daphne rolled a green M&M between her thumb and index finger, as if she were examining a gemstone in the light, then pitched it back into the candy dish. "Where's a bucket of water when you need one?"

"Things aren't working out between you two, I take it?" Amanda plucked up the discarded M&M, along with several others, and tossed them into her mouth one at a time, munching each before moving on to the next. She had probably consumed more candy this evening than all three of the kids combined—or at least Noah and Jesse. Matilda still didn't like sweets, the little weirdo. "What happened to 'best sex ever!' I didn't even know half those emojis could be used pornographically. And I keep tabs on that stuff for a living."

Nudging a hip against Amanda's to make room, Daphne settled in beside her and mimicked her posture, elbows on the counter, chin in hand. "That was before she turned into Old Mother Hubbard and started telling me I need to 'cleanse my chakra.'" Daphne rolled her eyes, emphasizing with air quotes. "She says it's clogged and that's why I'm so dissatisfied. I told her I know a great way to unclog that would be extremely satisfying, but she didn't get it. Why did you ever let me think dating a twenty-five-year-old was a good idea?"

Amanda distinctly recalled mentioning the age gap between the court clerk and her girlfriend to Olivia, not long after Daphne had introduced the three of them at dinner. But as Olivia had pointed out, a nine-year difference wasn't that big, especially considering the twelve-year difference between herself and Amanda. And the newly licensed cosmetologist was the first woman Daphne had dated since Meredith Ashton's gruesome murder in the Catskills. At the time, it didn't seem fair to question the relationship.

Of course, that was all before the elf hair.

"You said she was Olympic gold medalist bendy," Amanda returned, in a breathy imitation of her friend's exuberant claim that first morning after. She sunk her fingers into the Skittles dish this time, plopping several of the candies onto her tongue and waggling it at Daphne. "How was I supposed to argue with that?"

"Did I say bendy? I must have been blinded by the afterglow." Daphne sighed, stealing two of the yellow Skittles from Amanda's palm. She chewed them slowly, mulling. "I meant bossy. Olympic trainer bossy. It was hot at first, especially in bed, but now I'm over it."

Casting a wistful look at Olivia—she had put down her dancing partners and was teaching them to twirl, one on each side, both holding tight to her forefingers as she guided them in circles—Daphne asked, "Is Liv like that?"

Amanda mulled over her own mouthful of Skittles for a moment, sucking the dye from their hard outer shells like a vampire who craved Red 40. (Lord, she really needed to lay off the sugar.)

"You mean in general?" she asked with caution. Olivia didn't like the intimate details of their relationship being aired out in public, even if the public consisted only of their mutual friend. Amanda couldn't blame her. Privacy was hard to come by in the NYPD, and the higher you moved up the ranks, the less of it you were afforded. "Nah, not usually. Mostly just at work, but that's because it's her job."

Frowning deeply, Daphne picked her way through a punch bowl filled with assorted miniature candy bars, until she unearthed a Kit Kat. She tore open the wrapper carefully, preserving her glittery silver manicure, and broke the chocolate wafer in two, offering Amanda one side. "You mean to tell me she doesn't use her cuffs for anything kinky? Or yell at you to 'freeze, dirtbag!' and 'spread 'em!' in that raspy, late-eighties Kathleen Turner voice she has?" Daphne snapped off a piece of the chocolate with her front teeth, flourishing the jagged end at Amanda like a teacher scolding with a pointer. "You are seriously ruining all of my fantasies right now."

Scratch that. Daphne knew plenty about celebrities and pop culture, as long as sexy woman were involved. And she wasn't that far off about the pillow talk, either. Olivia had never given those exact commands in bed, but she did utilize her captain voice on occasion, typically when Amanda was right on the verge and just needed one . . . little . . . push . . .

It made hearing that same voice in the squadroom a rather unique and Pavlovian experience, something Amanda had discovered the hard way. The first time she noticed it, she'd blushed like a schoolgirl and stood there gaping for so long that Olivia turned back around in the door to her office, peered over her glasses, and barked, "Now, Rollins." Fin spent the rest of that week mocking Amanda's squeaky, "Yes, ma'am," uttered right before she plowed into him in her rush to obey the captain's orders.

As for the handcuffs, neither she nor Olivia had ever suggested them, and Amanda suspected they never would. Too many bad memories. Too many scars. Daphne knew nothing of their assaults—the Lewis trial predated her occupancy in the clerk's office and the only details released about then-Lieutenant Benson's abduction by the Manhattan Mangler were taken from Amanda's statement, which had been intentionally vague and misleading. Naturally there were rumors after both incidents, buzzings about "what _really_ happened" to the commanding officer of SVU, but Amanda had shut them down whenever she encountered them, including when Daphne's own curiosity got the better of her. They died down after a while, the rumors, just as they had after the Patton trial. Daphne didn't know about him, either, and Amanda planned to keep it that way. The fewer people who remembered that bastard's legacy, the better.

"Sorry to disappoint," Amanda said dryly, nibbling at the Kit Kat. If she kept it up, she'd be busting out of this damn ostrich frock before the night was through. "Why the hell are you fantasizing about my girlfriend, anyway? I'll knock your tiny ass into the middle of next week if you don't straighten up."

Poor word choice, Amanda realized too late. There was nothing straight about the little clerk or most of the people in her little apartment, and the look she gave Amanda said as much.

"Honestly?" Daphne gazed longingly towards Olivia again. The captain was crouched down in front of a whole clutch of children now (the three from home, Willa, and a pair of twin boys dressed like the emcee from _Cabaret _and Seymour from _Little Shop of Horrors_), having what looked like a team huddle. Or a hatching plot for world domination. "Worth it. Might as well face facts, Mandy Lou, your girl is a stone cold fox. And a total chick magnet. You'd have to kick just about every gay ass in this place by the time you were through, 'cause most of them asked if she'd be here tonight before agreeing to come."

"What the fuck, man?" Amanda chucked the remainder of her candy bar to the counter and swiped her palms together briskly—brushing off crumbs or gearing up for a fight, she wasn't exactly sure. Fight most likely, since she was already envisioning herself kicking off the high heels, ripping a slit into her tight skirt, and barrel-rolling over the counter to whisk Olivia to safety.

"Relax, Supergirl. They asked about you too." Daphne snatched up the discarded wafer, gobbling it down in a single bite. "You guys are like the ultimate real life OTP to this crowd. We all 'ship you together, don't worry. I mean, none of us would say no to an OT3 sitch, but we all know Rolivia is endgame."

Amanda blinked at her friend. "I have no idea what you just said to me."

"It's a good thing, I promise." Daphne chased her chocolate bar with a sour apple Blow Pop from the punch bowl, periodically withdrawing the sucker to punctuate her reply by swishing the candy at Amanda. She was really taking this wand thing too far. "Although, speaking of endgame. You plan on putting a ring on that—" She directed the lollipop towards Olivia, or rather her backside, as she got to her feet, sleek black trousers enhancing every delicious curve. "—anytime soon? This group might cut you some slack, but there's a whole city full of thirsty queer folk out there who'd grab her up like _that_. And a lot of straight ones too, I'm guessing, although I really have no idea what goes on in their minds."

"She's gone fifty-two years without letting anyone, regardless of sexuality, 'grab her up.' I think I'm good." Amanda did her best to sound confident, but she detected a note of nervousness in her snarky little laugh. And if she heard it, Daphne almost certainly had as well. In desperation, she crammed a handful of candy corn into her mouth, chewing furiously. "'Sides, we've only been living together for goin' on two months. I don't wanna rush it."

"I didn't get a word of that, but I'm guessing by the terror in your eyes, you're communicating reluctance. Blink once for yes, twice for no."

Amanda scrunched her eyes closed, hard. "Too soon," she said. It came out "_oo foon_," along with a strand of multicolored saliva.

Absently, Daphne tore a paper towel from the roll mounted under the cupboard and pressed it to Amanda's chin, as if wiping up her friend's drool was an everyday occurrence. "Too soon? Oh, you sweet summer lesbian. You're thinking in heteronormative years. In dyke years, you two should already be married and poppin' out a couple more munchkins for my Lollipop Guild."

"Excu—" The rest was lost as Amanda gagged on the waxy glob of candy corn and dissolved into a hacking fit, drawing stares from the greasers and Pink Ladies congregating nearby. Even Olivia turned from the motley crew of pint-sized characters with whom she conversed—she should have dressed like Mary Poppins, to be honest—a look of mild concern on her face. Apparently the scene where Fred gave Ginger the Heimlich maneuver had never made it past the cutting room floor.

"We're okay," Daphne assured the onlookers, while thumping Amanda vigorously on the back with her palm. "Nothing to see here. Pay no attention to that girl behind the curtain."

To Amanda, she hissed from the corner of her mouth, "Jesus, woman, get it together. You're causing a scene."

"Me?" Amanda coughed heartily into the wadded paper towel and waved for Olivia, who had started for the kitchen and her choking lover, to stay put. Rounding on Daphne, Amanda straightened to her full height—close to five-nine, with the heels—and fixed the shorter woman with a (mostly) playful glare. Just then, she understood the appeal Captain Benson saw in towering over everyone else. "I'm not the one telling my so-called best friend to get knocked up by her boss after eight months of dating."

"Awww. You're keeping track, that's so cute!" Daphne wasn't the least bit intimidated. She had the gall to pinch Amanda's reddening cheek. "And so very gay. Come on, Mandy Lou, admit it. You wanna have her babies."

With an agonized groan, Amanda dropped her head forward and got a face full of fluff. She sneezed into her cleavage, gave another weary moan, and glanced up in time to see Olivia peeking over at her, curious. The captain was far too observant for her own good. Observant, intelligent, beautiful, courageous, powerful, generous, passionate . . . Of course Amanda wanted to marry her and have her babies, she'd be crazy not to. But she would be damned if she'd admit it out loud, especially to Glinda the Nosy Witch of the North.

"Aren't you forgetting some fairly obvious details?" she asked, and took a sip from the bottled water Daphne had pulled out of the fridge for her.

"Such as?"

"Well, maybe your bubble didn't get you to school on time the day they explained this in seventh grade health class, but two ladies can't make a baby together, Miss Good."

Pish posh, said Daphne's dismissive little wave. "While it's super cute and sort of annoying that you think I learned anything about gay sex in a classroom—no shit, Sherlock. There are plenty of other ways to make a baby that don't involve—" She lowered her voice, shuddering as she added, "Dick. Ew."

Once that bit of unpleasantness was out of the way, she brightened and looked up expectantly at Amanda, hands on her puffy pink hips. "Next excuse? Hit me."

Amanda was sweating through her ridiculous and expensive cocktail dress. She resisted the urge to fan a hand under her armpits. "I'm forty. And even if I got pregnant right this very second—_Ah!_ _Don't!_" She held up a silencing finger in front of Daphne's parting lips. "Even if I immaculately conceived a child here and now, in the middle of your kitchen, I'd be giving birth at forty-one. Do you know the risk involved with geriatric pregnancies?"

"By all means, regale me, Grandma."

"Not only that," Amanda continued, gesturing a bit too widely, too emphatically, "Liv's birthday's in February. What, am I supposed to go up to her and be like, 'Happy fifty-third, honey, I'm getting you a baby this year. Surprise!'?"

Daphne twirled the lollipop against her pursed lips, contemplating the announcement. "You might want to give that some work. Don't make it so much about her age. Focus more on the joy of bringing new life—"

"And." Amanda clapped a hand over Daphne's mouth, blocking the sarcasm and the Blow Pop. Humor twinkled in those cerulean blue eyes, no matter how passive the clerk pretended to be. "She's got two kids already. And I've got Jesse. I doubt she even wants a fourth."

"Are you kidding? Look at her over there." Daphne twitched her head in Olivia's direction and dodged the palm that came after her again. She secured the lollipop in her mouth, smiling smugly around the stick that kept Amanda at bay. "She's Maria von Trapp-ing the hell out of those kids. Face it, dude, your girlfriend wants seven children. Little blue-eyed blondes she can dress up in curtains and go gallivanting around Manhattan with, performing impromptu but perfectly choreographed song and dance numbers."

The image was so absurd—Olivia dancing perfectly, or singing on key, for that matter?—and yet somehow so spot-on, Amanda couldn't help but laugh. "I'm afraid she'll just have to settle for . . . that," she said, pointing toward the duel taking place on Daphne's sofa. Noah, in full _Phantom of the Opera_ regalia, stood at one end of the stout little lounge, wielding his cape like a matador; Jesse, _el toro_, bounced up and down on the opposite end, her red do-rag flapping behind her as she bent forward and prepared to charge.

"HULK SMASH!" bellowed the five-year-old, just as Olivia scooped her up, rescuing her from impending concussion and Noah from untimely death.

"Remind me again why your child is shouting Marvel catchphrases while dressed like a reject from _GLOW_ at my musical-themed Halloween extravaganza," Daphne said, cracking the lollipop open with her molars. She used her incisors to gnaw the gummy center off the stick. It was a bit like watching a small vulture clean the meat off an animal carcass.

No more sugar for Daph tonight.

"She refused to wear the _Mamma Mia!_ 'Super Trouper' jumpsuit we got her. Demanded to be Hulk Hogan instead." Amanda chuckled at her daughter's hijinks. The little pistol was currently facing off with Olivia, flexing the foam biceps that were built in to the sleeves of her bodysuit. Her banana-yellow sunglasses and bushy Fu Manchu were both cockeyed above the WWF Superstars sneer she'd practiced in the mirror all week. Next time, Amanda would double-check that the kids were asleep before she watched eighties wrestling videos on YouTube. "She's still a little unclear on the distinction between Hulks."

"Your kids are so weird," Daphne mused, chomping her gum and shaking her head at the tableau playing out in her living room. Bat-like, the Phantom had leapt from the sofa, swirling his cape menacingly as he circled Fred Astaire and Hulk Hogan. Annie was close at the Phantom's heels, cheerful and irrepressibly cute as ever—and oblivious to the standoff in which she participated. Dorothy and the twins stood on the outskirts, bewildered.

_Your kids._ Amanda smiled to herself, unable to think of a single reason why she should correct her friend's wording. "And you want me to make more of them?" she asked, thrusting her water bottle at Daphne. "Better rescue my dance partner before they put her in a headlock or something."

"Wait!" Daphne put up her palm, halting the departure. Then she rummaged around in the candy-filled punch bowl until she produced two wrapped treats, presenting them to Amanda with an impish grin.

One was a Ring Pop, the diamond-shaped suckers you could wear like a ring as you licked them; the other was a Baby Ruth. Emphasis on _baby_.

"Go get 'er, tiger," Daphne said, and cuffed Amanda firmly on the upper arm, scattering ostrich feathers every which way. Her apartment would look like molting season by party's end.

Sighing, Amanda grabbed the sweets and tried to shove them into her pockets, before realizing she had none. Stupid damn dress. As she stalked past the candy buffet, she seized a handful of Pixy Stix from a cup by the punch bowl. "You are such an . . . Oz-hole," she called back to Daphne, then tore the ends off the paper straws and downed about five or six at once. She almost choked on the tart powder, but she was antsy as hell after that conversation with the wickedest good witch in NYC—she needed the sugar rush.

"Everything okay?" Olivia asked, when Amanda had sent the kids off to torment Auntie Daph, who was still cackling in the background. "Looked like things were a little intense over there . . . "

"Nah, it's all good, darlin'. You know Daph. She's always startin' something." Amanda played it off with a shrug, trying not to stand as awkwardly as she felt. Her knees were wobbly and she couldn't figure out what to do with her hands. She hadn't been this nervous around Olivia since extending that first invitation to the Catskills. For Valentine's Day, no less.

Finally, she stuck out her hand, turning it palm up to reveal the contents. "Want some candy?"

Olivia eyed the offering, eyed Amanda. She narrowed her lovely, perceptive brown eyes, and turned them on Daphne. Then right back to the candy. "Baby Ruths are my favorite, actually," she said, and reached for the candy bar. Hesitating a moment, she picked up the Ring Pop as well and shook it at Amanda by the plastic wrapping. "I've never had one of these. Are they any good?"

All at once, Amanda couldn't stop grinning. "I dunno. You'll have to try it and see."

"Hmm. Wanna try it with me?"

"Yep." Amanda gave a decisive nod and took Olivia's free hand, lacing their fingers together and kissing the back. "I do."

**. . .**

**THE END**

* * *


End file.
